Page 45 of Giving Chase

The words hit me like a physical blow, even though part of me has been expecting them. "You're joking, right?"

"Chase," Mark leans forward, his voice gentle in a way that makes me want to scream. "We're pushing forty. The industry's changing. And you're..."

"I'm what?" I challenge, heat rising in my voice. "Come on, say it."

"You're killing yourself," Will cuts in bluntly. "And we're not going to stick around and watch."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "So that's it? Twenty years of brotherhood, and you're just gonna walk away?"

"Brotherhood?" Mark's voice cracks slightly. "Is that what you call showing up three hours late to rehearsal, high out of your mind? Missing recording sessions because you're too hungover to function? Disappearing for days with no word, while we're left wondering if this time you've finally OD'd?"

His words cut deep, mostly because I know they're true. But I can't face that right now. Can't face any of it.

"I'm fine," I insist, even as my hands shake so badly I have to clasp them together. "I've got it under control."

"Like you had it under control in Sydney?" Will asks quietly. "Or Tokyo? Or that night in Madrid when Eliza had to talk the hotel out of calling the cops?"

The mention of Eliza's name sends a fresh wave of shame through me. She's been conspicuously absent lately, sending her assistant to deal with band matters. I tell myself it's because she's busy with her VP duties, but I know better.

"One more album," I say suddenly, the idea forming as I speak. "One final tour. Go out in style, give the fans what they deserve."

Will shakes his head. "Chase..."

"No, listen," I lean forward, the desperation I'm feeling channeling into enthusiasm. "We've got the songs. That stuff I showed you last month? It's good. You know it's good. We do it right - take our time in the studio, plan a proper farewell tour. End it on our terms."

I can see them wavering. Over two decades, I've learned exactly how to play them, how to appeal to their sense of artistry and loyalty. The guilt of manipulating them like this is just one more thing I'll drink away later.

"What about you?" Mark asks. "Can you keep it together long enough to do this right?"

"Yes," I lie, meeting his eyes steadily. "I swear. No more missed sessions, no more showing up late. I'll do whatever it takes."

Another look passes between them, loaded with twenty years of friendship and worry and love.

"One condition," Will says finally. "You get clean. Really clean. No half-measures this time."

I nod quickly, already calculating how many pills I have stashed at home. "Of course. Whatever you need."

"We mean it, Chase," Mark adds. "First slip-up, first missed rehearsal because you're too fucked up to play, and we pull the plug. No arguments."

"Deal," I agree, even as part of me knows I'm making promises I can't keep. But I'll worry about that later. Right now, I just need to keep the band together, keep the music going. It's all I have left.

Will stands, running a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "Alright. One last album. One last tour. Then we're done."

As we head inside to hash out the details, I catch my reflection in Will's sliding glass door. For a moment, I barely recognize myself - the shadows under my eyes, the tension in my jaw, the slight tremor in my hands that never quite goes away these days.

I look away quickly. One last album. One last tour. One last chance to prove to everyone - to Eliza, to the band, to myself - that I'm not as far gone as they think.

I can do this. I have to.

But even as I make plans with Will and Mark, part of me knows I'm lying. To them, to myself, to everyone. Because the truth is, I don't know how to make music sober anymore. Don't know how to feel anything without chemical assistance. Don'tknow who Chase Avery is without the buzz of alcohol in his veins or powder in his nose.

I guess we'll all find out soon enough.

New Way Out

ELIZA

I'mlate to the photo shoot, having lost track of time in a budget meeting that ran long. My heels click rapidly against the polished concrete floors of the studio as I hurry to check in, muttering apologies to the coordinator who's clearly been waiting.

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